


Drabbles/prompt fills

by extremesoft



Category: Formula 1 RPF, Formula E RPF, Motorsport RPF
Genre: A fine chance to learn a couple of Finnish swear words, Ambiguous Relationships, Angst, Angst and Feels, Bad Decisions, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dancing, Domestic Fluff, Dreams and Nightmares, Established Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, Humor, Introspective Max, Jeandré!, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, One-Sided Relationship, Pining, Post-Coital Cuddling, Secret Relationship, being with someone but lusting after someone else a little, kind of, more pairings and tags to be added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2019-06-30 01:35:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 13,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15741438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extremesoft/pseuds/extremesoft
Summary: Drabbles and ficlets mainly written for prompt challenges on Tumblr. Jeepers!





	1. Daniel/Max: Circle

**Author's Note:**

> Like the summary said, this is my collection of works for a drabble challenge I sort of ended up reblogging, ahem. You can find the said challenge [here](http://captainfuu.tumblr.com/post/177104909263/send-a-number-or-2-and-a-pairing-and-ill-try), for example (and yeah, that's my blog); if you're on Tumblr and got interested, feel free to hit me with an ask, but you're all also welcome to request for drabbles in the comments here as well. If you do that, follow the pattern of the challenge: a pairing and a one-word prompt. :) I can't promise I'll fill the requests awfully quickly, but _always_ as soon as I can anyway!
> 
> (PS: I'll elaborate the first prompt in the comments or something so I won't ruin it completely)

“We should put a stop to this.”

A couple of slow nods, dark curls swaying to the rhythm. “Yeah, I know. This whole thing is nothing but cheating, back and forth, and we can’t deny it.” A decisive look, locking eyes. “This endless, crazy circle of deception and self-betrayal… It has got to come to an end. We have to quit while we still can.”  
“I think the same.” Pause. A hesitant, questioning look, a small flicker of doubt in the otherwise decisive movement of fingers. “But it’s just so hard when the… temptation becomes too much, you know. There’s no logic to it, none, it just… gets over my head. Every time.”  
“Yeah, and then all hell just breaks loose and _bam_ , look at us, here we are again, repeating the same stupid mistakes, forgetting all the regrets of the previous times.”

Another pause, biting on lip. A quick glance, eyebrows swiftly raising. “Do you want this?”  
“I…” Uncertainty, a frown that’s quickly gone. “If I’m being honest… yes, I really do. But it’s not fair to you, y’ know.”  
“I know.”  
“Can you live with that? Are you willing to accept the consequences of giving me what I want when you know I have nothing to give in return?”

A ground-shaking amount of hysterical laughter as the joke finally comes to its inevitable end, Max snatches the last of the chocolate truffles from the box sitting on Daniel’s lap and unceremoniously shoves it into the other’s mouth.  
“Shut up and eat it.”  
“You do realize-”, very uncivilized noises, chuckling through smacking, a loud gulp as the fight with the truffle concludes in Daniel’s honorable win, “that we ate the whole goddamned box in one go _again_?”  
Sniggering, a faint blush creeping on cheeks and neck. “I just can’t help it, these are my favourites.”  
“Yeah, I know. Oh man, I’m so high on sugar right now.”  
“Me too, I feel sick.”  
“Yeah, ugh.”  
“So now we repent and promise we’ll never do this again, right?”

Another chuckle, a wide, sunny grin showing a row of slightly chocolate-stained teeth. “Exactly. That’s how it always goes.”  


  



	2. Pierre/Stoffel: Literature

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was certainly forced out of my comfort zone, but in a good way, when I got requested for Pierre/Stoffel :D Gee, wouldn't probably have thought of writing that otherwise! The word was 22: books.

  


“Do you read at all?”

Stoffel’s thumb idly caressing the screen of his phone halted to place, and Pierre couldn’t help chuckling at the sight of Stoffel lifting his gaze and actually raising his eyebrows at the unexpected question.  
“What? You mean, like... books?”  
“Yes”, sniggered Pierre. “You know, books. Made out of paper, printed words, you turn the page instead of scrolling down if you want to see more. Very old school. Do you read books?”  
“Uhh… not really, no”, said Stoffel hesitantly, feeling slightly ashamed as the words outed themselves and he realized that it really was the only truthful answer he could give. What he usually read nowadays was tweets and Instagram captions, like at that moment, maybe the occasional work-related material handed to him of course; and all that really couldn’t be described as a high point in the history of literature. “Why do you ask?”

Pierre shrugged, looking innocent but somehow inscrutable. “It just came to mind.”  
“How about you?” asked Stoffel in return, defensive for some reason. He _had_ of course read his fair share of books when he was in _school_ ; but years had come and gone since then, and Stoffel couldn’t help a surge of embarrassment when he got to thinking about what he had in fact become, God forbid. One of those young people with their phones glued to their hands and eyes glued to the screens, like, twenty-five-eight, the kind that everybody seemed to frown upon while doing the exact same thing. “You’ve probably read everything that…” he had to pause to come up with a name to top his remark with, “Voltaire has written, and the complete history of the royalty of France, while sitting on planes.”

Pierre let out a cheerful laugh, making Stoffel chuckle as well. “No, I haven’t, not just because I’m French.”  
“Something very smart and highly philosophical anyway”, teased Stoffel further and brushed Pierre’s cheek. He had actually seen Pierre relaxedly flicker through a paperback a couple of times; and even though he knew that Pierre didn’t exactly have his nose buried in books all the time either - or if he had, they sure were unusual luminous books that also required headphones -, the fact that he had caught the Frenchman in the act instantly made him feel like slightly the lesser man. “Your brain must be filled with wonderful wisdom. And dust. From all the books you’ve read.”  
“Stop teasing”, snorted Pierre, took a light hold of Stoffel’s hand and pulled it closer to his face to plant a kiss on his wrist bone. “It was just a question.”  
“Your intelligence exceeds mine and I’m not following”, said Stoffel, still feeling a tad caught off guard and vowing he’d find something proper to read at the first opportunity, since obviously Pierre considered him a horrible illiterate barbarian and Stoffel also definitely wasn’t exaggerating the urgency of the issue, no sir.  
Pierre laughed again. “You’re hopeless! Nothing more to it, really.”

And that was the end of the conversation as Pierre opened his phone again and started tapping the screen with featherlight but determined fingers, and Stoffel observed him with sheer warmth for a moment before following his example.

It was only a few days later, on a race weekend, when Stoffel returned to his room, exhausted and lost in thought, to find a package on his bed. His first reaction was - quite unusually for him - to let out a deep, discouraged sigh; somehow he already knew the gift was from Pierre, and while Stoffel of course enjoyed the way the Frenchman regularly showed his undying affection in these small, gratuitous ways, he couldn’t help thinking that what seemed like a large, heavy book was the last thing he wanted to be trying to pack in his already quite full and heavy enough suitcase. What was it with Pierre and his sudden interest in books anyway? Maybe Stoffel could give this one to the mechanics, let them stuff it in a freight container and let it travel with the rest of the heavy load. The thought of a random book placed among machinery and car parts made him chuckle to himself for some reason as he carefully unwrapped it, with no rush.

Then he felt his cheeks instantly flush Ferrari red as he read the sticky note attached to the cover of the book, saying _Not only Voltaire and history ;)/ love, P._ , and the title peeking underneath it. _Kama Sutra: A Guide to the Art of Pleasure_.

 _Okay_ , Stoffel thought as a wide, mischievous smile made its way on his face, _I certainly have to smuggle this home myself_.  



	3. Daniel/Max: Notes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The third prompt word was 39: secret admirer, and the pairing of course doesn't need any introductions ;)

The notes start appearing after the second weekend Daniel drives for Renault.

He gets both pleasantly surprised and very confused when he finds the first one, a bright yellow sticky note glued to the back of his helmet, before the second practice session of the third race weekend of the year. There’s nothing but _;)_ scribbled on it, no signature, nothing, and Daniel thinks it’s probably someone from the team, some friendly soul wanting to cheer him up, to say _you’re going to be okay_ in this funny little way because of course Daniel is still a little bit lost, a little bit beside himself despite all of it having been his call in the end.

Then the next day he finds the second one, and it has a heart drawn on it, and for some reason it makes his heart leap and run laps at first. But the combination of the yellow sticky note and the black marker on it still makes him think for another moment that it must be an inside joke, of course, someone’s way of making him feel welcome and put him gently at ease with this kind of jest. Daniel is a joker, why wouldn’t he know how to take a joke himself as well.

But the notes just keep coming. Some have hearts or smiley faces drawn on them. A couple of times Daniel finds a note with a poop emoji badly but nevertheless artfully sketched on it, and it makes him almost fall from his feet with laughter. Sometimes the notes contain some highly useful advice, such as _Don’t forget to put your helmet on before driving_ and _Always check your zipper before leaving the toilet_. Daniel saves every single note, no matter what they contain, he quickly finds a secure spot for them in his luggage; because _really_ , he thinks and chuckles to himself, how is he supposed to remember to check his fly unless he keeps the sticky note kindly reminding him to do so?

The team of course notices, slowly but surely, and Daniel’s mechanics start to gently tease him about the notes. Daniel must have a secret admirer around here somewhere, they say. One of the girls has obviously taken a liking on him but is too shy to come forward. They question everyone and get either flustered giggling or annoyed eye-rolling as an answer, but no-one confesses, and the mystery remains.

To everyone but Daniel, that is.

He already knows, he’s known for a long time, from the second he recognized the handwriting on the note that simply said _Have a good one_ , and he can’t help smiling to himself as the over-excited staff around him wonder out loud who could _possibly_ be leaving Daniel those cryptic notes, who would go through the trouble for him, who is the secret admirer showering him with affection.

_A very secret admirer for sure_ , he thinks, longing and love clenching his chest. _You’d go bonkers if you just knew_.

He can’t even begin to imagine how the notes get to him in the end. Whether there’s a conspiracy around him, an ally somewhere in his new team, or whether the notes simply find their place as a result of an incredible amount of quick and cunning. But it doesn’t really matter, not as long as the notes keep coming; because every single one of those notes Max has left him has made it easier to cope with the change, to bear being apart, until they get back to each other’s gravity again.  



	4. Daniel/Max: Wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was supposed to write more drabbles, I spent a couple of days writing nice nonsense smut instead (you'll get that as well, nothing to worry about), but being in a weird mood since Wednesday and even weirder since yesterday resulted in this. Request from dear SenorCasillas, pairing obvious and the prompt no. 16: broken wings. Archive warning: this is sad sadness on top of a pile of sadness.

_Gives you wings_ , they say; but Max can’t recall the last time he’s felt this paralyzed, rendered flightless.

 _Gives you wings_ , they say; yet what Max has come to notice is that wings are cheap currency nowadays. Wings once claimed are easily lost, and there are more ways than one in which they can be taken away. There’s the fast track - thank you very much for your services, the door is right there; and there’s the slow, silent crippling, feathers being torn out one by one, steadily widening cracks opening in the bones little by little, almost unnoticed, the free fall and the eventual crash when the once majestic wings come to the end of their useful life, brittle and devoured to the core.

 _Gives you wings_ , they say; and they treat Max like a prophet, a young Messiah, a treasure beyond imagination, handed to them on a silver plate. They re-forge him out of gold and platinum, he’s made into the lion he has chosen as his mask to every last bit of his soul, and his eyes are permafrost. It’s overwhelmingly foreign to him at times, there are moments when he feels like he’s watching himself from the outside even though he’s the one right in the heart of it all, and now that he thinks of it he really wants none of it. There is not one ounce of noble metals and ice in the armour they’ve suited him with he wears with more joy than he wears the warmth of Daniel, Daniel who is made out of nothing but the sun, luminous and fierce, and who Max cherishes above all and beyond measure.

 _Gives you wings_ , they say; but his wings are of Daniel and from Daniel, first and foremost. Daniel is the one who mends them when they get scathed, armouring him with not steel and blue frost but with love and light as they share nights and moments, words and silence, bodies and souls. And Max gives everything he has to give and more to Daniel in return, trying with all his might to repair Daniel’s wings like Daniel has repaired his, time and time again. But it gradually gets out of his hands and out of his power, and he can only watch in horror as Daniel keeps returning to him with less and less feathers every time, and he can only feel his chest clench and lament as he looks into Daniel’s eyes and sees how the gaze that once reminded him of a blazing ember on an autumnal night has nothing but the night left in it. He knows how it’s going to reach its inevitable end before Daniel does himself - vaguely, trying to cram it in the far end of his head in order to avoid it for as long as he can. But he knows, and he feels his wings already lessen and the tears he’s always been told to keep strictly to himself burn in the corners of his eyes. 

_Gives you wings_ , they say; but as he lies next to Daniel, doing nothing but understanding him, he can’t help thinking that in their attempts to give him the mightiest wings and the greatest wingspan of all they’ve broken the ones he already had, his wings are void of strength without Daniel, he can’t lift off from the abyss he’s plunged into without Daniel, and now Daniel goes away, taking with him Max’s ability to fly.

  



	5. Daniel/Max: Pets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're in for a... well, I'm not sure if it's a treat, but at least a flood of drabbles today, and after these there's only one to go! The first one is again Maxiel, of course, request by SenorCasillas and the prompt word 44: puppy love. I swear to heavens :D

It was one of those blissful moments of free time when they were able to do nothing but slouch around on a comfortable sofa and not feel even the slightest bit of guilt over it. And what they were doing was exactly that, both Max and Daniel absent-mindedly fiddling with their phones in silence in their own corners on the sofa but still enjoying each other’s company, just the presence of the other being enough to fill one with certain kind of mellow contentment.

“Have you seen this already? That’s cute”, said Max and stretched himself to flash his screen to Daniel as well. He had obviously been wandering around Instagram again and had now stopped to look at a picture of Valtteri playing with his new Dalmatian puppy, both parties looking equally over-excited.  
Daniel chuckled, mischievous as always. “Are you talking about Valtteri or the dog?”  
Max rolled his eyes and let a silly noise between an amused laugh and a desperate groan escape his throat. “The _dog_ of course, you jerk.”  
“You want one of those?” asked Daniel and poked Max’s nose, eyes twinkling.  
“Valtteri or the dog?” countered Max and stuck his tongue out at Daniel; Daniel erupted in such a hearty laugh that he managed to accidentally close all of his open apps with an uncontrolled movement of his thumb, then discarded the phone rendered useless completely for a moment.  
“Valtteri, obviously”, he joked and lifted his hand to gently edge it along Max’s jawline.

Max snorted and swiftly pressed his lips against the base of Daniel’s palm before the hand moved away again. “No, I wouldn’t want Valtteri, thank you very much. But I wouldn’t take a dog either, to be honest. I prefer cats.”  
“I wouldn’t take Valtteri myself either”, stated Daniel matter-of-factly, like he had actually been talking about whether he should choose a guinea pig, a goldfish or Valtteri as his pet, “but I wouldn’t mind a dog. Dogs are fun.”  
“What, I’m not your puppy?” asked Max toyingly and lowered himself to lay down and rest his head on Daniel’s thigh with a satisfied hum, tossing his phone somewhere beyond his feet, in the middle of the pillows, and closing his eyes. “Someone to cuddle and play with?  
“Nuh-uh”, said Daniel with an ever-persistent grin and threaded his fingers in Max’s hair. “If I played with a puppy like I play with you, it would be something called ‘bestiality’, y’ know, and I’m pretty sure that’s highly illegal. And on the other hand I’m not into pet play either. So nope, no puppy love here. You’ll have to settle for regular, boring honey badger love from my side.”

Max sniggered and smiled warmly, letting out a deep, happy sigh as Daniel kept stroking his hair, despite the movement being uneven. And then he suddenly opened his eyes again and frowned, looking so magnificently thoughtful he could have been mistaken for someone highly accomplished in ancient philosophy.  
“What’s pet play?”

Daniel’s eyebrows shot up and he couldn’t help an incredulous chuckle. Okay, he was definitely _not_ going to do the explaining on that one.

  



	6. Stoffel/Pierre: Sapphire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Then to something other than Max and Daniel for a change - this one was actually quite interesting to write. Hmm. I believe the one who requested this goes by the name of LooIsHere around here; Pierre/Stoffel (though this is sheer one-sided pining), and the word was no. 7: blue.

_Pierre_ is a synonym of _blue_ , comes Stoffel to conclude after admiring Pierre from his both respectful and fearful distance long enough. 

In every picture Pierre posts there’s always something that’s blindingly blue. Each and every time. The gentle skies stretched over and above him, the turquoise sea playfully sparkling on the background, the electric blue overalls clinging to his slim frame, and if nothing else, the eyes tinted with morning glow that always seem to glisten like the boy in the picture knew he was being watched; and as Pierre keeps hanging pixel paintings on the virtual wall of his unreal art gallery, they slowly form a mosaic of infinite blue that drags Stoffel down in a vortex of infinite blue until the blue is nothing but black and Stoffel has to forcefully rid himself of going through Pierre’s pictures _yet again_.

For a moment.

Pierre is a sapphire, comes Stoffel to conclude again. Equally blue, equally rare. Equally out of reach. Or no, that is not the absolute truth - Stoffel’s lip curves up in a sad shadow of a smile when he realizes that with the assets he’s been blessed with he in reality would have access to almost countless and again countless sapphires, all painted with breathtaking blue, glimmering and unyielding, each new one more magnificent than the one before but still only a pale echo of the most beautiful and rarest of all. The one not a single bit of Stoffel’s fortunes can help him grasp.

Stoffel is both grey and orange, and in his worse moments he can’t help thinking about how they are both the inherently wrong colour to be. Grey is hopelessly dull compared to the lively blue of what’s known as Pierre and orange pierces the calm lull of the colour Pierre embodies all too violently. In other moments he knows how ridiculous he’s being, thinking himself so much lesser making him feel like a mere adolescent, pining fool who constantly compares himself to others, not seeing his own worth through how much he thinks of the others. But he can’t help it, feeling like the unattainability of Pierre is solely in his own head and of his own inferiority despite there being thousands of reasons, causes out of his powers, why Stoffel can’t simply go to Pierre and tell him how deeply affected he is by him. How his heart shudders when he sees a glimpse of Pierre from across the paddock, and how it leaps when Pierre then notices him and smiles his cheerful smile, sky-like eyes twinkling.

He opens his phone again, gives in again. The vortex of blue awaits him, and he’s anxious to throw himself into it, not only blissfully drowning in infinite blue but feeling infinitely blue; longing for something he’s certain he can never have.

  



	7. Charles/Pierre: High

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I don’t know what happened with this one, I swear, but this is closer to an actual fic than a drabble, really… err, I think I need help :D No but joking aside, this is just about the fluffiest cotton candy I've written in a while. The requested pairing Pierre Gasly/Charles Leclerc and prompt 14: first kiss. 
> 
> I’m sorry for my shameless use of horrible makeshift French (never learned French in all my life), but if there’s something fun and useful in there, it’s the phrase Charles uses two different times, since it pretty much translates to “could you be silent for once in your life”, and I’m so going to use that in the future (on myself, of course :D)

They had never shied away from coming up with the weirdest nicknames to each other, having known each other for years and years already - if anything it all sometimes resembled a competition to see which one of them would take the overall silliness the furthest. It was nothing new for them to hug or even give each other cheek kisses in the exaggerated yet wonderfully airy manner only proper Frenchmen and Monegasque could truly master. Yet somehow Charles couldn’t help wondering whether he actually had gone just a tad too far and made shambles of all of it by fondly calling Pierre _his little one_ in an Instagram comment. And adding a couple of extra exclamation marks after all the worded over-excitement. And topping the cake by adding a heart as well. _Merde_.

Now that Charles thought of it - while crafting panicked excuses that mainly consisted of him having just been all too bananas about getting his first drivers’ points, just in case -, their communication _did_ quite frequently meet what felt like unnamed and wordlessly agreed borderlines, making Charles sometimes wonder how deep it in fact ran, the affectionate, candid friendship between the two. In Pierre’s mind, that was - Charles had at least somehow come to terms with liking Pierre hopelessly much by now, more than Pierre must have liked him for sure; but what he still thought he’d need practice on was better hiding it from Pierre, the balance between giving too little and showing too much.

And just to throw Charles even farther off, there were nights when he dreamt of himself and Pierre circling an empty ballroom, orbiting each other, eyes locked, edging closer and closer to each other with every step they took until Charles was able to simply lift his hands to Pierre’s neck and kiss him; and he’d always wake up confused, hopeful yet startled, destined to spend the day looping the dream in his head countless times.

Charles was quite violently pulled out of his spiral of both worry and fantasy this time, however, when the door of the driver room he had quietly inhabited suddenly flew open and a breeze of irresistible good mood filled the air as Pierre bounced in. Of course it was Pierre, who else of all the people around Charles could it have possibly been - he must have somehow used his impeccable charms to find out where exactly Charles was located at the moment.  
“ _Mon petit_ boss-man!” said the soft, cheerful voice Charles well knew and had just been trying like mad to get out of his head, failing miserably in those attempts, and he swore not a second passed before he felt the strong arms of the lean Frenchman around himself.

Charles couldn’t help but laugh at Pierre and his persistently idiotic pet names for him.  
“You can’t still be that happy about my first points”, he mumbled as he wrapped his arms around Pierre’s waist and unknowingly let out a content sigh at the touch.  
“ _Chéri_ ”, chuckled Pierre instantly, having of course taken notice of that tiniest of sounds that to Charles now felt like he had accidentally yelled ‘please never let me go’ on top of his lungs, “you missed me _that_ much.”

Charles was quite surprised about how quickly he was able to begin regretting absolutely every aspect of his life, starting from being born; but he really had no choice but to try and joke along the best he could and hope that the warm blush on his cheeks would fade before Pierre would see it and tease him to his early grave.  
“Of course I did”, he said, daring to ruffle the bronze-coloured mess that was Pierre’s hair. “I couldn’t possibly live without you.”  
_Si tu pouvais te taire pour une fois_ , he thought and got to hitting himself on the head as hard as he mentally could as he felt the arms uncoil from around him and Pierre slightly pulling back. Charles considered it a small victory that Pierre hadn’t kicked him in the nuts yet, but otherwise he suddenly found it a handful to gather his courage and look Pierre in the eye. There were a myriad things he could see in the sparkling blue of Pierre’s gaze, and yet he was convinced none of them was what he really wanted to see -

until Pierre cupped his jaw with gentle fingers and pressed a light kiss on his mouth, of course.

Charles didn’t know whether it would do any good to faint and fall to the floor just then, so he decided to settle for not breathing and thus becoming not only completely overwhelmed but also light-headed. Maybe Pierre had gotten drunk for some reason? No, Pierre didn’t taste like alcohol, there actually lingered the cold touch of mint on his breath - so he must have done drugs, yes, that was most likely it, Charles couldn’t possibly think of any other explanation to Pierre suddenly kissing him than that the boisterous Frenchman had decided to really let himself go and get zonked on a race weekend.

Charles then felt the soft lips part from his own, Pierre’s hands slowly sliding along his neck and to his shoulders, and he realized he had closed his eyes only when he finally opened them again.  
“Pierre”, he breathed, at an absolute loss of all thoughts when he saw before him the gravity-defying hair and the playfully glistening blue eyes of the man he had for so long wanted to kiss - and now that that man had kissed _him_ , Charles found he could do nothing but stare and not get anything out of his gaping mouth. And the prolonged silence of course made Pierre slowly fill with utter shame and panic, and the inevitable look of alarm started to creep to his face, and Charles sure noticed that, and he just _had_ to force himself to out at least some actual words-  
“Are you high?”

Pierre let loose an incredulous, strangled laugh as Charles industriously prepared to die of sheer mortification. “What?”  
“No, I mean”, Charles stuttered, feeling like his IQ had suddenly been reduced to something around his shoe size. “You just- did… that.”  
“ _Oui_ ”, said Pierre, suddenly looking horribly discouraged. “I’m so sorry, I understand if-”  
“No, no”, interrupted Charles quickly, now preparing to die yet again because of how heartbroken and alarmed Pierre appeared. “I, uh, didn’t mind, actually.”

The blissful expression that instantly lit Pierre’s features up was to Charles the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his life so far; and he had been lucky enough to have lived in Monaco for the whole of that life, after all.  
“I’m so sorry”, Pierre repeated once more, like he had had to play back the last words he had said in order to move on, hands still on Charles’ shoulders, “but, uh, I was so overjoyed, and I saw what you had written, and I’ve liked you so much for so long, Charles, and I thought that screw it, I’ll finally do it, no matter what, I’ll die if I can’t kiss you, even if it’s only once, and even if you decided to hate me after it-”

Pierre’s bubbling stream of flustered words finally came to a halt as he had to stop to get air, and Charles carefully lifted his hands on Pierre’s face, ran his thumb gently along Pierre’s cheek, still almost unable to believe that this time it wasn’t yet another of his nightly figments of imagination. They were both shaking, blue eyes shining with pure starlight.  
“Of course I’m still happy for you, extremely happy”, whispered Pierre, more softly now, a coy smile flickering in the corners of his mouth. “Happy and proud. And I’m sure you’d like a huge, golden trophy better, of course, but you can think of this as my prize for first points to someone I care very deeply about.”

And Charles finally, _finally_ , remembered how to speak again, or rather how to say something more appropriate than ‘are you high’.  
“Pierre”, he murmured, the mere word itself tasting like champagne and strawberries on his tongue. “Firstly, there’s no need to be sorry. And secondly, there is no trophy or any other prize in the world that would beat this.”  
They gazed into each other’s eyes with equally stunned and dreamy expressions on their faces for a moment, deeply silent and clearly having forgotten how to do anything else - even kiss again -, until a small frown wrinkled Pierre’s forehead.  
“Why did you ask if I was high?”

Charles felt his cheeks instantly flush pink and burning hot once more, and as Pierre chuckled at the sight of him, Charles vowed he could have killed Pierre if he just didn’t like him so inconveniently much.  
“Well, I… wasn’t exactly expecting you to… make a move”, he started, “so, uh. I thought you had gotten drunk. But you didn’t smell like alcohol, so. Uh. Hmm.”  
“Charles, you are the best idiot in the entire universe”, giggled Pierre, his whole being radiating nothing but dumbfounded happiness. “If there’s anything I’m high on right now, it’s you.”  
“Oh _please_ ”, groaned Charles at the nauseatingly mushy sentiment, unable to keep his grin from spreading impossibly wide and cheeks still wonderfully red. “ _Si tu pouvais te taire pour une fois._ ”

They were not in a ballroom, sure, but this time Charles also wasn’t dreaming, and they weren’t dancing around each other anymore; and as Charles carefully kissed Pierre to silence him, like he had kissed Pierre in his dreams so many times before, his only thought was that even earning a million drivers’ points would never feel half as wonderful as the soft touch of Pierre’s lips on his own. 

  



	8. Kimi/Sebastian: In silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must confess I'm probably the least Simi-oriented person in the world, but here we are, you're in for some Simi I've actually written! Grazie ragazzi tutti frutti mamma mia ( :'DD sorry about that) to CustardCreamies for the request, wouldn't have missed it for the world. So the pairing was the one mentioned already and the prompt "first kiss". I hope this is deceennnttt, eek. :3
> 
> Now as a Finn myself I just couldn't resist sneaking some Finnish in there as well, so in case you're interested in swear words (now boys and girls and unicorns and all in between, it's time to learn profanities in foreign languages!): "helvetti soikoon" is somewhat an equivalent to "for fuck's sake", and "perkele" is just a magnificent word for all your swearing needs.

He thinks they’re too old for playing games anyway already, for beating about the bush for all eternity and blushing neck deep whenever they just think of the other existing on the same planet; so when Kimi finally decides to get over himself and just _helvetti soikoon_ kiss Sebastian, every bit of it is as straightforward and rough-edged as Kimi’s underlying personality. It just happens in the aftermath of some mandatory PR bullshit, he places a hand on Sebastian’s neck and kisses him, on the mouth and all that, and then pulls back again, leaving a very flustered and bewildered Sebastian standing in front of him.

Now that Kimi _has_ done it, he’s suddenly quite unsure about what were the reasons that led to this unusual occurrence in the first place. What _were_ the reasons, really? Were there even any reasons to begin with? Trying to think back to the moments preceding this deed of his feels like trying to wade through a sea of porridge - the sea of porridge that is his brain -, and he does feel an urgent need to actively try and avoid thinking of the word ‘kiss’, as if not calling the action with its real and true name would somehow make it less _done_.

They were filming something, Kimi recalls. Yes, there was a video in the making of him and Sebastian talking and fooling around, yet again - or rather Sebastian fooling around and Kimi rolling his eyes and chuckling at him amusedly, as usual. And Kimi remembers thinking about how the fuck does Sebastian always manage to do that sooner or later, make him laugh, no matter how god-awful a mood he may have been in before that. There’s something in Sebastian, irresistibility that draws Kimi to him like a ten-tonne magnet. Sebastian serves as a welcomed counterforce to the unsociable, quiet character Kimi often willingly reduces himself to, being lively and almost overflowing in his curious, energetic way of looking at the world. And there is certain inevitability in how fond Kimi has grown to be of it, this easy balance between them. And how fond Kimi has in silence grown to be of Sebastian.

And now Kimi has done it. Kissed him. There’s no way around it, no amount of not thinking about it is going to change it, and oh _boy_ if going around kissing people isn’t just the most efficient way known to man to fuck everything up. _Perkele_.

So there they stand, at a loss of words, Sebastian staring Kimi fixedly in the eye while Kimi valiantly resists the overpowering urge to stare at literally anything except his flabbergasted teammate. Is there a law somewhere that forces people to look at the people they’ve just kissed and now slightly wish they hadn’t, really? Not in Finland, that’s for sure, thinks Kimi - and oh, how nice it would be back there, preferably lost somewhere in untouched wilderness, all by himself, buried waist deep in snow and morose loneliness like all decent Finns all the time.

“You kissed me”, starts Sebastian after an infinite moment of stillness, words dry and crackling like he had forgotten how to use his voice for once in his life. He’s also fairly sure he has certainly sounded smarter at some points of his life, but right now stating the obvious seems like a good place to start unraveling this, eh, _thing_.

It takes all of Kimi’s stubborn strength to not look away, but he still doesn’t. “Yeah”, he says and fucking _shrugs_ instead. He is not one to try and avoid his responsibilities, even though this particular event now feels like he’d rather have it served with a vodka glazing.  
“Why did you…” tries Sebastian to continue, completely failing to finish the question but then again not really needing to.  
Kimi frowns, like trying to refresh his memory. “Felt like a good idea at the moment”, he mumbles. Sebastian would laugh at Kimi being so goddamn _Kimi_ if he could, but he’s still too dazed to do so, and Kimi on the other hand feels like he’s itching everywhere underneath his skin. “Not so sure anymore.”

“You’re not even drunk”, says Sebastian all of a sudden, voice full of pure amazement. “We’re not in a karaoke bar, we’re not drunk, and you still did that. You didn’t even need to drink yourself half unconscious to kiss me. I’m _flattered_.”  
Kimi snorts and shifts on his feet in unease, still refusing to look away from Sebastian but slightly hoping that there would occur some minor interference, like an earthquake or an apocalypse, for example, that would conveniently distract them from the situation at hand.  
“I’ve kissed enough people drunk”, he states bluntly, nevertheless. “And dealing with the consequences is even less fun if you also have a terrible hangover.”

Sebastian can’t stop himself from lightly chuckling before his face straightens again; his eyebrows furrow and he bites the inside of his lip.  
“Hmm”, he says, looking excruciatingly thoughtful. “I still don’t think I got the full picture.”  
“ _Fine_ ”, grunts Kimi impatiently and rolls his eyes, scratches the back of his head and glances at his feet in apparent defeat, so thoroughly confused and uncomfortable by now he’s seriously wishing he was able to kick his own backside blue. “I’m sor-”  
“No, wait”, says Sebastian and lifts his hand, silencing Kimi again - it never takes much, now even less, and as Sebastian then lifts said hand to Kimi’s shoulder and leans to lightly place his lips on Kimi’s in return, the possibility of Kimi never uttering another word in his life is more real than ever.

“I meant that picture”, says Sebastian gently as he takes a small step back, leaving a very flustered and bewildered Kimi standing in front of _him_ this time. “Didn’t think you’d be the one to do that first, but I’m glad you did.”

There they go again, counterforces, Sebastian lively and radiating and Kimi so utterly stunned it’s probably going to take several hours before he is able to respond to Sebastian in any way, by talking or kissing; but again there is certain inevitability in how fond they _both_ have grown to be of that easy balance, and how fond they have in silence grown to be of each other.

  



	9. Berger/Senna: Eclipses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now for something completely different: a trip down the early 90's lane. I actually wrote this for my wife for our wedding anniversary yesterday - everything I've written about Berger and Senna before has been for her as well, bless her, and now after a _years'_ break it was about time to check if I still had this duo in me.

What they will be known for are world championships, race wins, success; glorious fights and crownings as well as losses and bitter ends. They will be known for jests and jokes, each shenanigan they carry out worse than the one before. They will be known for being a rarity, teammates who are also friends; they will be remembered for triumphing when the whole world expected them to fail, cameras and microphones aimed to capture their inevitable collision and downfall only to come to notice it never happens.

What will always remain hidden are their silences.

Gerhard knows what his fate is going to be and what role he’s going to be cast in from the moment he is recruited to race alongside Ayrton. He drives well but isn’t threatening, he makes his presence known but isn’t after a throne. He’s the perfect choice to counter the one already destined to sit above him, and he realizes it himself as well as the next person. But being who he is, Gerhard doesn’t take it as much as being put in Ayrton’s shadow as he takes it as a chance to bathe in his rays, to learn from him and mirror the fire in him like the moon reflects the light of the sun; and Ayrton is the sun, and Gerhard is his moon, and the two orbit and reflect each other in harmony as time goes by. 

And what Gerhard comes to see is that not even the fire that Ayrton is can blaze and burn for all eternity without inevitably waning every once in a while. He thinks of it all as eclipses of the sun from the first time Ayrton comes to him in the middle of a race weekend, strained and exhausted, in search of the calm eye of the hurricane raging around him. Gerhard knows better than to ever ask why it is him that Ayrton chooses, his talkative teammate out of all people. He simply observes Ayrton as he comes to sit next to him and lets out an all-emptying sigh, closes his eyes, doesn’t utter a word. And again Gerhard instinctively knows better than to speak himself. 

It’s not often that Gerhard finds comfort in silence. He is the joker of the pack and will be remembered as such, laid-back and twinkly-eyed. But for reasons he can never truly get a hold of, being silent with Ayrton suddenly comes to him as naturally as being mischievous with Ayrton, time after time. And sometimes Gerhard isn’t sure whether the effect Ayrton has on him should actually scare him more, the way Ayrton can render him wordless and bare without any effort - but what he always finds is that he can only think of Ayrton with warmth and affection that leave no room for dread.

They keep happening, their shared silences, the solar eclipses. Ayrton keeps seeking Gerhard out from time to time, and Gerhard keeps not questioning him. He takes joy and pride in these passing moments of being the moon to Ayrton’s sun, shielding him from the world - or the world from his flares. And Gerhard knows better than to ever say anything; but one time he quietly reaches to brush Ayrton’s hair, in the spur of the moment, and as Ayrton hums and instinctively leans into the light touch, eyes still closed, he casts a spell on Gerhard that he will never be able to break. They quickly fall into this wordless routine of theirs, Ayrton allowing himself to let Gerhard see him in his weakest hours and Gerhard silently stroking Ayrton’s hair, chest full of tenderness.

Gerhard doesn’t consider himself to be a man of poetry; or to him the poetry of life lies in the simple joys of it. Being free of care, surrounded with drinks and beautiful women. But if there is one poem he can’t stop reciting like a rosary, it’s Ayrton. To Gerhard Ayrton is sheer lyricism, down to his core. It’s in his eyes, dark and all-consuming like infinity itself, in the ebony of his hair and the freckles on the skin that seems to always echo the heat of the beaches of Brazil, no matter where they travel. Ayrton is unearthly and yet terribly true when he speaks, and Gerhard always stills when he hears Ayrton’s mellow voice, somehow feeling like that voice would have the power to still the movement of the planets themselves if the one using it so wished. 

And it will be said that Ayrton taught Gerhard how to drive while Gerhard taught Ayrton how to laugh. It is _a_ truth, one side of it. But what Gerhard also learns during their quickly passing years together - either from Ayrton or from himself, he’s never quite sure in the end - is silence. And the silences they’ve shared, the spell Ayrton cast on him, keep shielding his heart like he shielded Ayrton, like the eclipsing moon shields the sun, even after Ayrton gets taken from him and voicelessness never sounds quite the same to him anymore.

  



	10. Daniel/Max: Rhythm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because it's not all day every day you can write angst and feels! This prompt was from Dr3amingInColour and the suggested word was 3: rhythm. I'm horribly terribly sorry this is so fricking _late_ , it took a bit of time for the inspiration to properly strike ("it's gonna take patience and time", lol, and what I mean by that you'll see below), and I sure hope this rises to meet your wisheeeessss :3 And everyone elses for that matteeerrr :3

If anything, Max makes sure to always complain about the music Daniel listens to in public. It’s always too loud, it’s the wrong kind, Daniel sounds like a cat that’s being strangled when he sings. But even though Max would admit it in public - or, indeed, to Daniel - over his dead body, he really can’t help absolutely cherishing the unconditional love with which Daniel sinks himself into his music. His terrible, ear-piercing, off-key sung music. The inexplicable joy in the way Daniel dances around is hard to ignore, and even though he certainly sings off-key, he treats even that with the same shameless enjoyment he treats every aspect of his life with; and Daniel’s ability to make an utter fool of himself and not even care is something Max unspokenly admires.

Max doesn’t sing and Max doesn’t dance. He always says that it doesn’t make sense to sing or dance when he can really do neither, and what’s the _point_ in doing something you already know you’re going to suck at? Such a waste of energy and time when you can do something productive with both and always be at the peak of your fervently polished efficiency.

But in moments like the one right now, when Max is standing in the kitchen making a bowl of muesli and other annoyingly healthy stuff - half of which he can’t name, let alone pronounce, or tell what’s so damn special about them - and hears Daniel happily bellowing _it’s gonna take time_ in the hallway on top of his lungs, he feels a wave of not only love and fondness but also... 

Not that Max is jealous, of course. What do you call it when someone is doing something and you secretly wish you could bring yourself to do the same as well? Oh, it _is_ jealousy? Okay, crap. Max is jealous, then.

 _It’s gonna take patience and time to do it riiiight_ and then Daniel prances and bounces into the kitchen, hips swaying from side to side and head bobbing to an inaudible melody because the song is not actually playing out loud anywhere, it doesn’t _need_ to be playing out loud anywhere for Daniel to get completely caught into it. _I got my mind set on you_ chants Daniel as he dances his way to Max, snapping his fingers and swinging his arms. Max shakes his head and grins to himself, pouring a spoonful of chia seeds in his boring bowl.

 _I got my mind set on you_ continues Daniel to hum merrily when he wraps his arms around Max’s waist and plants a kiss on the back of his neck.  
“You’re crazy, you know that?” Max chuckles and turns his head, his neck twisting into a very uncomfortable angle as he tries to reach Daniel’s cheek with his lips and after a moment succeeds.  
_I got my mind set on you_ answers Daniel still, rocking his hips against Max’s and trying to get him to join in the motion.  
“That song is awful and you know I don’t dance”, says Max, blunt but with evident amusement in his voice. He likes Daniel lightly grinding against his butt a whole lot more than the looming threat of having to perform dance-ish movements.

“Come on, Max. It’s only me”, mumbles Daniel against Max’s shoulder and tightens his grip, making Max inevitably fill with soft affection, Daniel is so _warm_ in every way, his breath, his arms, his hips and his moves. “You can dance with me a little. I won’t tell anyone.”  
“I’m in the middle of this”, tries Max once more and gestures towards the lonely bowlful of annoyingly healthy mishmash.  
“It’ll survive without you for a moment”, whispers Daniel and leans to brush Max’s ear lightly with his lips, making him involuntarily shiver as his neck and left arm explode in goosebumps at the tickling sensation. “But I won’t, y’ know.”

Max lets out an exaggeratedly deep sigh and shakes his head; then he feels Daniel’s arms moving away from his waist as a response and Daniel placing his hands on his shoulders, and then Daniel gently but indisputably starts turning him around.  
“Don’t be ridiculous”, groans Max as he’s being slowly coaxed into facing Daniel - he could wrestle himself free from Daniel’s grip with ease but doesn’t do so, of course, he enjoys the close proximity way too much for that and settles for protesting only by whining. And then he finds himself looking into Daniel’s twinkling eyes, staring at a smile so tender he simply can’t help catching that smile as well and echoing it back.

“You do have a rhythm in here”, Daniel says and gently taps Max’s chest with his fingers, reaching out to touch his heart of hearts through the skin and muscle. “You could use it more often. Humour me.”  
“Oh my God, you’re so cheesy today”, Max says but laughs nevertheless, there’s no way of stopping it, never with Daniel.  
Daniel grins and ties his arms around Max once more, quietly kisses the soft hollow over Max’s right collar bone; and as he starts gently rocking his hips once more, side to side, Max catches himself suddenly willing to give in to him, to lose himself into the rhythm for _once_ in his life. He waits for a moment and then starts to try and mirror Daniel’s movement. One side, then the other. One side, the other.

It sure doesn’t come naturally to him, he feels about as pliant as a brick and he also seems to have the sense of rhythm of the said brick, but he does try; and for a moment they just sway together to a song that’s not playing anywhere, in complete silence, both to their own yet shared rhythm, chest to chest and heart to heart.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (so the song Daniel sings in the text was obviously "Got My Mind Set on You" by George Harrison, and I'm also terribly sorry if this causes the song to play in someone's head for the next five days and thus stirs desires to murder me with a, eh, spoon :'D)


	11. Sebastian/Daniel: Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got this as an anonymous ask and I'm like _dying_ to know who I wrote this for because whoever or whatever they were, they threw at me quite the challenge :D I do have my ridiculous limitations... But anyway, weird one-sided attraction follows. The suggested prompt words were 26 (tactile) and 34 (good enough), and I think this combines them both in a way..? Maybe, in my mind at least. Hmm.

Sebastian knew how ice felt under the touch of his hands. He could recall in detail the prickling cold spreading from his fingertips, making its way past the joints and up to his knuckles, tracing the lines on his weathered palms and stopping to circle the heels of his thumbs until his hands were rendered numb and the nerve endings there senseless. And the feeling of freezing was always followed by the feeling of melting; the burning ache once the cold was forced to withdraw, the water from the thawing ice trickling down his palms and knuckles and dripping from his fingertips.

It was a thoroughly familiar sensation to him, something he had grown to be fond of and to need. The frost, the bite of it, the heat enlivening him and the trail of meltwater on his lover’s skin. But _sometimes_ , from time to time, in the longest and darkest of midwinter nights, he did catch himself wondering how it would have felt to touch fire.

He had had his chances not many years ago. The fire had come alive so close to him he had constantly been able to feel the consuming heat radiating from it, and the sparks shooting from the crackling coals had freckled the skin of his arms with burns, infinitesimal yet stinging. And he had not understood it back then, the grace and power of the blaze. Daniel had been a looming danger to him and nothing more, threatening to overthrow him from the throne and burn it to ash, and Sebastian had fled and found comfort in the cold not long after, the snow soothing his reddened skin.

But the fire that Daniel was had grown and changed its shape, tantalizing flares and glowing embers, and the more Sebastian watched it all from afar, from the wintry embrace he had been enclosed in, the more often he found himself hoping that he wouldn’t have been in such a haste to run then. Daniel had turned into a wildfire, an untamed force of nature, both beautiful to stare into and perilous beyond imagination. Sebastian could see it from the distance clearer than he had ever seen it from so up close, all of the beauty and all of the power; and while he cherished the calm of the chill, there were moments when he walked past Daniel, greeted him and could still feel the heat, the sparks, the force hidden behind the smouldering gaze. And those were the moments when he wished that he could have held out his hand to touch the flames and watch on as they would engulf it, licking their way past the joints and up to his knuckles, up along the lines on his weathered palms, up until he was blissfully devoured to the bone.

Sebastian knew how ice felt under the touch of his hands. It was a familiar sensation to him, something he had grown to be fond of and to need. But he had had his chances to touch fire as well; and _sometimes_ , from time to time, in the longest and darkest of midwinter nights, he did catch himself regretting not taking single one of them.

  



	12. Dan/Max: Chill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabbling and babbling continues! This particular one is not part of any challenge or anything like that - what it is a result of is having some time in my hands, seeing bits of the Kitzbühel material on tumblr, reading Poldark and just still not being okay with this.  
> 

The true ways in which things are going to be different and the vastness of his longing strike Max harder once he comes to Kitzbühel again.

He feels like he's lost in the middle of snow-capped mountains and keeps losing his focus on the people around him as well, searching for a compass point but finding none. He has been to Kitzbühel times before and he likes to think that he's toughened by the cold, twilit winters of the northern hemisphere anyway, the proud, grey skies and the capricious snowfalls. But the blades of wind bite him with a different kind of rawness this time. They slice their way under his skin and carve their way steadily from his cheeks and the tips of his fingers towards his heart after having gotten in.

The air is crisp in his lungs and crystal clear and the smooth surface of the snow reflects it like an empty mirror. Max feels like the sun hasn't risen at all.

He looks around the airy room again, lets his eyes wander from person to person and they all remind him of the ice-coated, unforgiving mountain sides surrounding them - the bright, penetrating blue of Pierre's eyes, the rough outlines of Daniil's face, cut out of stone with coarse hands. And they all talk in such short, clean ways now, when there used to flow through the rooms the wide stream of a mellow voice that carried in it specks of summer itself. Andrea is the only one to bear resemblance to what's missing; and it makes Max's gut tighten every time his gaze passes the dark wreath of curls and the black, lively eyes. Similar yet still so different. Andrea is not the sun.

Max's mind keeps drifting across the distances to the other side of the globe.

He thinks of the embrace of warmth and the honey-coloured light, of powdery sands and inklings of hot air passing by. He thinks of opal seas and sugar-white shores, of dusty forest trails and quiescent farmlands. He thinks of sun-ripened skin, golden and tender, he thinks of the layer of sweat that follows a workout and makes the gold glow all the more. He thinks of touching and being touched, as if he had been frost first caressed and then mercilessly melted by beams of spring.

He thinks of all that he remembers and all that ghosts on his body, all that he has seen glimpses of and all that he has been told about during the course of the slow winter months, slower than ever. He keeps trying to drag himself back to the present moment, he keeps trying to look the others in the eye and tell himself that he will cope. He will manage. But there is no escaping the void in the middle of the room now, in the middle of them all; it swallows Max right under everyone's eyes and no-one sees.

A strange burn settles in Max's throat, like he had been trying to swallow a shard of ice. The light here is harsh now without him and the Alpine air sharp-edged.

He startles from his spirals of reminiscence and contrived cheer when he suddenly feels the quick buzz of his phone in his trouser pocket. He excuses himself a while later and opens the screen with eager fingers.

_how's it going freezin your balls there?_

He _hears_ the message, the warm voice murmuring all the words against the curve of his ear, rather than reads it with his eyes. The chest-bursting highs of joy and affection make his hands shake and typing even the short answer back difficult.

_good but I miss you_  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This sat in my drafts for a couple of days and now posting it coincides all too bitterly with the new Renault material, I'm sobbing)


	13. Jev/André: Capture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is random, I can tell you that! This is not a result of any prompt challenge either and I'm not quite sure where this came from, really - an inspiring gifset and a photograph of Jev I saw on tumblr, going down with flu, writerly insecurities and wanting to test myself, all sorts of stuffs. But wherever it came from, it's a fluffy piece of Jeandré for a change, and I hope you enjoy it! :) This takes place during the Sanya E-prix weekend, obviously after what must have been adorably dorky adventures in the Atlantis Sanya waterpark, and it's absolutely ridiculous that I don't know anything about that particular weekend except that they visited a goddamned waterpark and are obviously quite smitten by each other :'D

The waterpark leaves ripples of chlorine on them both and Jev tastes it on André’s shoulders and neck when he presses his lips and tongue on them in open-mouthed, lavish kisses. Again, and again. He basks in how warm André’s body is against him like a cat in a spot of daylight; André's skin bears not only the clinical smell of chlorine water but the burn of the flares of the sun itself. The scents and sensations contradict and play with Jev’s head, reminding him of summer days (filled with swimming and spitting out the sly water that always found its way to his nose and laughing and wasting hours and hours drying under the sun), and the innocent, pure dream-likeness of them blends and grows into heat their bodies share and multiply between white sheets, against a mattress that’s an inkling too pliant to Jev's liking. The persistent scent of chlorine, the scent of laundry detergent marking the bedding, the scent of André - the lulling mixture of his sweat and aftershave and his _warmth_.

Jev closes his eyes and takes a deep breath in. He stops with his lungs full, stills for a moment, delays the exhale for as long as his system lets him. Should there ever be a distinctive fragrance to warmth, it would be that of André’s.

“What?” asks André’s voice through the soft silence blanketing them as he becomes aware of Jev’s body growing stiffer with the strain of trying to shackle air. And the air moves out of Jev at the careful interruption and molds into a deep sigh he sinks into André’s chest, through the more sensitive patch of skin next to his armpit. Remnants of the gust recoil and return to him and brush against his chin and Cupid’s bow.  
“I want to capture this”, Jev murmurs, made soft and scatter-brained by the feelings of contentment and comfort he has been happy to fully succumb to. He opens his other eye just enough to see a glimpse of the glint of amusement in André’s drowsy gaze. “What you feel like and how you smell. But it’s impossible. I can’t hold my breath long enough.”

André’s chest tremors with a burst of air that’s like a voiceless chuckle, as if he had wanted to laugh but was too spent to make the smallest noise. But his stare becomes sharper as he keeps it on Jev and there is suddenly something to him that makes Jev open his other eye as well. André _is_ impossible, he thinks. Impossible to capture. It makes Jev want to try even more, though, in every way, relentless and stubborn. His fingertips travel along lazy, mindless tracks on André’s stomach, along the subtle arches and grooves his muscles sketch. He has tracked them times and times before and still he searches for them and outlines them time and time again, in his continuous attempt to memorize.

“Stay there”, André whispers then and stretches to reach for something from behind his back with his right hand. Jev knows already what it is and he slowly closes his eyes again. It’s not an attempt to hide in plain sight, not anymore. It had been for the first couple of times - and he had thought himself ridiculous at given moments, but the lens of the camera of André’s phone aimed at him had made him so blatantly aware of himself that he had tried to avert and shield by shutting his eyes, once or twice, as if the act had made him somehow less disrobed and vulnerable, less on display when right next to André, less _there_. Now it’s more of a gesture of solid acceptance. A huff of surrender without a sound. He draws another breath, listens to the quiet rustling of André’s duvet.  
“Open your eyes”, says André, and the words are tranquil yet pierce their way to Jev with a speck of ruthlessness. Jev exhales slowly again and opens one eye, peeks at the glimmering lense he then faces, teases André in this gentle little way when there’s no escaping him and his whims. He stays put until he hears the familiar _click_ and then watches André discarding the phone again with both eyes.

“Do you think you’ll ever have enough pictures?” Jev asks and his mouth curves up with the mellow mockery.  
“I want to capture as well”, shrugs André like there was nothing to him snapping pictures of Jev in every possible occasion, in every possible setting. In the car, in the garage, lit by dusky morning light, tinted by velvety twilight, suited up and ready to conquer, naked and pressed against him in bed.

André places his fingers on Jev’s jaw and guides it up. Jev yields to the movement and bends to meet André's mouth with his own. And when they kiss again, Jev finds himself wondering whether André’s mysterious camera truly does capture it _all_ for André to remember - not only the small imperfections of Jev's skin and the sharp angles of his bones but the coarseness of his hair and the blissful huskiness of his voice as well, the scents of chlorine and laundry detergent and warmth, the smoothness in the way their lips touch, the smothering heat radiating from their legs, laced together in a tangle under the blankets. And it flees him quickly but for a moment he thinks how feeble they in fact are, their efforts to capture, with Jev never being able to confine André's scent in his lungs and André never being able to hold everything in the memory of his phone alone.


	14. Daniel/Max: Yellow II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few months back there circled another drabble challenge in tumblr, that time it was about sentence prompts. I wrote three and have posted them on tumblr ages ago, but haven't crammed them in here yet. So why the hell not do that now :'D For _some_ very mysterious reason all the prompts were Dan/Max, I can't possibly figure out why, but you are in fact free to request other things as well (and this goes to the one who suggested writing about Lewis and Valtteri, I haven't forgotten you~)
> 
> This first request - and the first one I finished - was from PainPowder and the sentence was "Just kiss me, you idiot." Winter testing 2019 fluffiness ensues. :3
> 
> Oh, and: I may be a slow writer because of inconveniences like work, but I am happy to take requests if you have something in mind, either here or on tumblr (where I go by the name captainfuu). Have a nice day, all of you! ♥

“So, d’ you think it suits me?”

“I can’t believe that’s the first thing you ask me.”

“You have to admit that it does.”

“Just kiss me, you idiot.“

Daniel did exactly as Max told him - for once in his life - and closed him in a desirous kiss without further ado, instantly spilling into it all of the longing he had kept in his pockets for weeks and months on end.

The question about whether yellow suited Daniel had for some reason been the one they had handled the most during the winter months, and yet Max still found it hard to properly answer it, even with Daniel standing right before him. It was all a joke, naturally, Daniel pestering him with the topic from time to time and Max throwing whatever flippant answer he had been able to come up with back at him.

Max knew the purpose of the jest as well as Daniel; for them it was a safe, harmless way to try and handle the change without actually touching on the subject of the change itself.

“I missed you so goddamn much”, whispered Daniel against his lips, then kissed him again just for good measure. And Max yielded - for once in his life -, mouth open and willing.

Max hesitating in his answers was never really about whether yellow would suit Daniel, of course it wasn’t. Max had already seen Daniel in a variety of god-awful shirts during their times together, each new one more tasteless than the one before, and not a single one of them had ever managed to lessen his affection. The colour yellow was the least of his problems - in fact, Max found himself surprisingly often thinking that if anything, it somehow fit Daniel even better than the harsh dark blue. It had always felt to him like Daniel exuded pure sunlight, for as long as they had been around each other, and the yellow he now got to wear seemed to catch every last speck of it and humbly reflect them, making Daniel all but glow, shine even brighter.

“I missed you too”, Max sighed against the curve of Daniel’s neck after breaking the kiss again. He opened his eyes, caught a glimpse of the bright yellow epaulet of Daniel’s overalls, closed his eyes again to process the sight that was stuck behind his eyelids now.

It was what it all stood for that made Max inevitably waver every time Daniel alluded to this most acute of questions. The sun would rise on the other side of the garage wall now and set on Max’s.

“How’re you feeling?” Daniel murmured in his ear, the gentle wisps of words lightly tickling it. “Not about the bloody yellow. About everything. You alright?”

Max could have absolutely loathed the way Daniel had grown so skilled at interpreting and finding the meanings of his quietudes if it hadn’t made him feel so cherished at the same time.

He hadn’t been able to prevent himself from slightly dreading it at given moments, the beginning of winter testing and everything becoming different and concrete in one blow with that. Seeing the change, sensing the change. He had found himself wondering, in those unwilled but unavoidable pinnacles of disbelief and uncertainty, whether it would be something they would fail to tackle in the end despite all their promises, worded and wordless. The colour yellow.

But on the paddock Daniel glowed and Daniel shined like he always did and it still felt to Max like Daniel exuded pure sunlight, from the moment they got back to each other. And in addition to all Max knew from before, there was a touch of joyousness to Daniel now that he couldn’t help but embrace. Tingling excitement about the new and shamelessness about the old. And as Max stood there enfolded in Daniel’s familiar hold, breathing him in and selfishly basking in his warmth, he found himself all of a sudden being highly indifferent about the colours Daniel was wearing at that moment. Blue and red, yellow and black - all the same to him, all the same, as long as Daniel would wear his love for Max underneath.

“It suits you”, he said after a moment of pondering and allowed the unexpected, soft contentment he suddenly felt draw a smile on his face. “Obviously, I liked you a lot in blue. It’s a good colour, I like it a lot myself. But… yeah. Now that I have taken my time to think about it, and now that I see it live, I think it’s not too bad. You have looked worse.”

It was a proper answer, to not one but two questions; and Daniel’s face lit with a wonderful, wide grin, full of white teeth and rapidly surfacing relief.

"Yeah, I certainly have”, he agreed before leaning to kiss Max once more, and Max’s thoughts about whether Daniel was wearing blue or yellow or all the colours of the rainbow grew smaller and smaller with every passing second.


	15. Daniel/Max: Bet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second of the three, the prompt came from Cascadja, and the sentence was "Why do bad things always happen to me?" This is the most humorous thing I've written in ages and there's nothing much to it - just all-round light-heartedness and our favourite idiots being very idiot-y indeed, but then again, there's never anything wrong with that. :3

“Why do bad things always happen to me?”

Max shakes his head and does nothing but cruelly snigger at Daniel’s unbearable misery. “Shut up, they don’t. And besides, you agreed to this.”

“Yeah, I remember very bloody well, but I did it in the assumption that it would all be fair and square in the quali and I don’t think that me having problems with my fucking brake balance counts as- _ouch_ , fuck you, that fucking hurt!”

“Stay still", mumbles Max and if anything, he sounds all the more amused by Daniel’s whining and feeble protests. He stops what he is doing for a moment and leans backwards, tilts his head, clicks his tongue approvingly and then carries on. He tightens his fingers around a bunch of Daniel’s black curls and gently twirls them back and forth a couple of times before getting back to the job at hand. He likes the feeling of Daniel’s hair, how the inklings of the coarseness of steel wool somehow manage to blend themselves with the simultaneous silkiness and the light fuzziness. He could keep idly playing with Daniel’s hair for hours. There’s too rarely time for that. “You keep moving all the time when you talk.”

“You know that staying still and shutting up at the same time is impossible for me unless I’m fast asleep”, points Daniel quite truthfully, drumming on his knee with light, light fingertips and then closing his eyes for a second. Funny, Max thinks to himself when he sees it, how Daniel closing his eyes always somehow feels like someone had turned a light off. “I _could_ fall asleep. In fact, I’m gonna do just that. Wake me up when you’re done. Or even better, wake me up when it’s all over and I’m back to normal - _ouch_ , you pull so fucking hard, I told you already. Fuck, I mean, if I don’t expect at all times that I beat you then there’s really not much point in anything, but how did it come to this, _jeepers_ …”

“There’s not much left, stop moving”, answers Max, concentrating more on what he is doing with his hands than replying to Daniel and with a voice as monotonous as that of a railway station announcer, as if he had been completely blind and deaf to Daniel’s pains and sufferings. “And I didn’t force you to agree.”

“I bet you fiddled with my brakes just so that you’d get to do this to me”, Daniel grumbles but his mouth inevitably curves and opens with a widening grin. “And now that I think of it, you seem disturbingly used to doing this, I reckon, makes me wonder how you’ve practiced…”

“I’ve just seen how it’s done, idiot, I haven’t really practiced it myself”, retorts Max and smiles sourly. He loosens his hold of Daniel’s hair again, plants a small kiss on his forehead, takes a step back and then bursts into an uncontrolled laugh.

“Oh my god, you look spiffing! Absolutely gorgeous. Holy shit, I’m going to take so much pictures”, he says, places the burning hot hair straightener hastily on the table after clicking it off and starts to search for his phone. Daniel opens his eyes again and lets out a long, frustrated groan. 

“ _Aw_ , come on! Fucking hell, Max, what have we done, a beautiful boy all ruined”, he says to his own mirror image. It doesn’t answer, and Max is of no help either, still giggling so hard it is impossible for him to take pictures of Daniel with his hands moving to his laughter. Daniel buries his face in his palms and tries to wail and sob even louder than Max laughs. “Fuck, I haven’t looked this hideous since I was five! I want my curls back, curl it back.”

“No, I won’t”, manages Max to say before getting caught by another fit of giggles. “I don’t know how to do that, and a bet is a bet. They will come back after shower.”

“I fucking hate you”, moans Daniel, still keeping his hands over his eyes as if wishing his hair would return to its fuzzy, curly, bouncy self it he kept himself from looking at it long enough. “I can’t believe I let you do this to me. I’ll never bet against you ever again. Or if I do, I’ll make sure to beat you so fucking thorough it’ll cover our bets for the next eight years, how ‘bout that.”

“Seriously, you look great”, chuckles Max and snaps one more picture before discarding the phone for a moment. He runs his fingers through Daniel’s newly straightened hair. It’s a very odd and foreign feeling, too smooth, all too _tame_ , and he finds he likes it surprisingly little; but a bet’s a bet, and if Daniel has agreed to Max straightening his hair if Max beats him in quali, there is no way in hell Max would miss the chance to do both. “You always look great. I’m going to put all the pictures on Instagram so everyone can see how-”

“No you’re bloody _not_ ”, yells Daniel but can’t stop himself from finally laughing heartily as well as he leaps up from the chair and starts his chase after Max, his phone and all the highly aggravating and unsolicited evidence of his bitter loss they both now hold in their memories.


	16. Daniel/Max: Lullaby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And 3/3, this request was from bonotje and the sentence was "Why are you screaming?" This particular piece I'm quite happy with - of course the nightmare scenario isn't anything new, but still. Sleepy fluffiness! The nightmare described in the beginning is quite icky, but I hope it doesn't result in anyone reading having nightmares! ♥
> 
> An extra special honorary mention goes to singlemalter for letting me half-steal the lullaby thing from the third chapter of 'without apology' (which I strongly recommend! ♥ )

Dreams and nightmares of racing aren’t anything new to Max, though he does have them more infrequently than could be assumed. Sometimes he views boring dreams of mundane driving errors and makes mental notes of them for himself to use in the future - sometimes he dreams of taking the wrong turn and suddenly ending up in a field of tulips (or wherever it is his dream-brain decides to throw him), and he simply shakes his head in bland amusement when he wakes - sometimes he crashes into a wall and jolts violently awake, sometimes he crashes into another driver and jolts violently awake with cold sweat shimmering on him and tremors taking a tight hold of his muscles.

This time it’s bad - not only does he crash into another driver, and not only does the other driver happen to be Daniel, but the dream swiftly tilts and capsizes and turns into the kind of all-wrong nightmare he will be able to simply smirk at a few days later yet that now feels like a scene from an all too lively horror movie scripted, directed and produced by the crueler part of his subconscious. They crash heavily, there’s too much speed in everything, supposed to be a slow corner really, _what the fuck am I doing, why am I in seventh gear?_ Daniel’s car does a spectacular somersault, lands against a concrete barrier and is instantly engulfed by a fire. Then Max is somehow out of his wrecked car already and doesn’t have the slightest memory of having struggled with his steering wheel and the halo. The track announcements are an utter cacophony to him. And when he looks into the direction of Daniel’s car again, his stomach reels when he sees Daniel’s cut, bruised and fire-eaten body climbing out of the remains of his car and running straight at him, apparently in the process of starting a murderous chase.

Max’s malicious dream logic allows him to try to escape but his feet move like sunk in a bucket of glue - the ominous background music of the scene, also composed by his highly untalented brain, is so clichéed it is bound to make him laugh when he reminisces the nightmare a couple of days later but right now causes nothing but his throat to tighten in sickening horror - and he tries to scream, _sorry, sorry, I had the wrong gear, no, no, don’t do this_ , but Daniel is starting to catch him, eyes gleaming red behind his visor, and Max trips over his feet, of course-

_no, NO -_

-

Max snaps awake to his own attempt to actually yell in his sleep. His heart pounds in such panic it makes him feel unwell, and his body jerks so harshly he accidentally smacks the person sleeping next to him with not an insignificant amount of force. The person stirs lazily and groans, and Max startles and flinches because said person was also a crash-created zombie trying to murder him not many moments ago, and it all still feels very unpleasant indeed. Max flinches involuntarily again at the discomfort of remembering the nightmare. He is not proud of himself in that particular state.  
“Why are you screaming?” asks an almost inaudible, thickened voice from inside a bundle of blankets and pajamas - or, rather a bundle of blankets, a worn t-shirt and a pair of long-johns. The bundled character, named Daniel, fumbles blindly around until his hand reaches Max’s arm, and Max is all the more embarrassed when he realizes he has to force himself to calm down and not break free from the already extremely loose hold.

Then Daniel slightly opens his eyes and peeks at him. It eases Max a little - the gaze dawning upon him is warm with sleep and fully non-murderous puzzlement. Max draws a breath in, long and shaky, and then slowly lets it all out, equally shaky. It’s Daniel, the same Daniel as always, alive and unscathed, simply drugged by drowsiness and most likely very confused.

Daniel frowns and then sluggishly turns on his side. Max would rather get swallowed by the Earth itself than explain to Daniel what has just happened in his brain, sometimes incomprehensibly off-kilter by night. Sigh.  
“Did y’ have a nightmare?” Daniel asks and yawns shamelessly when he lays his arm on Max’s waist. Max snorts irritably, of course, but can neither hide nor deny the truth; Daniel has seen Max after nightmares enough times to roughly know when he has had one, after all.  
“Yeah”, Max says and shrugs like no big deal. No big deal whatsoever to watch Daniel crash and burn and die and _then_ rise from the ruins of his car. Nope.  
“Wann’ tell what it was?” persists Daniel again. Max opts for not saying anything, not knowing where to start and how into detail he should go (or would want to go) and really wishing that he’d just fall asleep again as soon as possible and dream of pleasantries like race wins and getting it on with Daniel instead of all the horrors. And Max not saying anything says to Daniel a good amount already.  
“Crash?” he mumbles and squirms to plaster himself onto Max’s side. Max smiles weakly, a little apologetic all of a sudden, as if he had been somehow responsible of the nightly whims of his mind in some way. Daniel softly kisses his shoulder.  
“It’s okay”, he hushes and tightens his hold of Max. “It’s okay. ‘M right here. You’re right here.”

Max heart still flits, refusing to believe Daniel’s amiable attempts to calm it.  
“I know”, he says nevertheless and stretches to plant a peck on Daniel’s forehead, or rather the fuzzy mess of curls hanging wildly over it. He’ll get to elaborating the more gorey details in daylight. “It’s okay. It just happens. Let’s go back to sleep.”

They keep trying to go back to sleep for a while, and Daniel’s breathing does grow heavier again; but the kind of all-wrong nightmares Max has just had do have a nasty tendency to stick around without an invitation, and Max finds it impossible to close his eyes without the trailer of the horror movie no-one ever asked for starting to play behind his eyelids. He opens his eyes and fixes them on the ceiling, closes them again, shifts in discomfort, opens, closes, shifts, can’t turn properly with Daniel holding on to him without eventually waking him up as well, shifts, wriggles. Fuck. Perhaps he should just give up and head out for a jog.

Daniel grunts quietly and frowns. Max startles again and then freezes still, swiftly glances at Daniel and curses himself. Trying to stay still makes the itch to change his position all the more urgent. Sigh _and_ fuck. He would give one of his trophies for the ability to turn on his side.

Then Daniel scoots even tighter against him - quite the achievement, really, given that Max can almost feel the small gurgles of Daniel’s stomach against his arm already - and lets out a low sound that eventually breaks with his hoarseness. Daniel clears his throat and tries again; his chest tightens and vibrates with noise after noise, low-pitched and calm, flowing gently against Max’s shoulder, tied together by Daniel’s warm breath - and it takes Max a bafflingly long moment to realize that Daniel is _humming_ something.  
“What’re you doing?” he still asks incredulously for good measure, fluctuating between amusement, annoyance and the kind of helpless adoration one is expected to feel when they catch a glimpse of a heap of baby animals.  
“Lullaby”, Daniel shrugs and then _shushes_ Max, and Max’s eyes widen comically.  
“I’m not five”, he protests as soon as Daniel continues humming and manages to silence him again. He almost says _shut up_ but for some reason finds himself inexplicably wishing that Daniel would not in fact do so and thus smothers it, settling for mere whining.  
“Nah, you’re thirty-three”, Daniel whispers. Max can’t help chuckling at the relatively lousy joke when his exhausted brain finally manages to get to the bottom of it. To hell with Daniel and him making it impossible for Max not to love him, despite all the hardships such as being completely and utterly demoralized by things like getting hummed at. “ _Sshh_. Lemme continue. Get you some sleep.”

Max has no idea what it is that Daniel hums to him, but once he reluctantly gives in to the embrace of the smooth sound, the effect oddly reminds him of the one of listening to a cat purr. Daniel’s singing sure is off-key whenever Max hears it (which is way too often to his tastes yet he cherishes every moment), but his mellow speaking voice somehow carries through the humming, making it soft and - to Max’s slight mystification - _pleasant_ to listen to. Daniel’s chest resonates to it against Max’s side and it feels subtly and slyly comforting in its concreteness, like something to physically anchor to.

Max smiles to himself. A chuckle tickles his midriff but he stifles it, not wanting to disturb Daniel any more. Of course it is still eventually Daniel who ends up falling asleep to his own lullaby first; but Max follows suit not long after. He stares at Daniel and feels his eyes starting to flutter closed, listens to Daniel’s gentle snores and does feel more peaceful now, breath steady again and heart unfazed. And it might be a fleeting thought crafted by his steadily surfacing subconscious, but it flashes to him how he’d much rather steer to that field of tulips by accident for his next dream. And perhaps meet Daniel there.


	17. Charles/Daniel: Re-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just needed to write some ugly things out of myself. The result, as you can see below, is... certainly something I never thought I'd write because, well, y' all know what I usually write :'D, but it just wouldn't leave me alone and it served both as an outlet and a way to put my writing to a bit of a test.
> 
> This goes to Lionheart. Thank you, dear. ❤️

They slope into it all quite unnoticed and it's somehow never quite right.

Daniel always plays with everyone and it's nothing. Charles doesn't know how it usually ends and doesn't want to, either. Daniel simply has the skill people of his nature tend to possess; he notices people and - more crucially - makes them _feel_ noticed. It's the act he repeats, it's a feat of his. Small words, warming laughs, careless touches of an open hand. All that - meaningless, meaningful, all the same, it's what he does and it's how he eventually ensnares, regardless of if it's an intention or not.

Of course Charles isn't stupid, or naïve. He shares enough of the same racing driver insanity they've all succumbed to to know there is bound to lie an amount of impenetrable darknesses behind the daylight decoy. Charles has a spine of platinum, and he's not one to merely melt under the touch of an occasional, tentative sunbeam. It's the same glow for everyone and the meaning either is or isn't there. Sometimes Charles wonders whether it always even is Daniel who decides the depths it delves into.

It's finding a juncture that proves to be the eventual downfall. It happens in a ridiculously unsurprising way, in something of a tired, sloppy movie scene. Hotel bar, morose disappointment in existence in general, unexpectedly finding another poor soul who has made bold choices in life that have left them worse for wear than intended. Words, then silence. Insecurity. Not too much thoughts, at least not those that reach an end. Misjudged, misshapen attempts to mend cracked backbones with something pointless and senseless ( _madness_ ).

Rewind. Replay.

It just never should have been Daniel in the first place, and Charles knows he should have known.

Daniel is not a bad person in any way, no. He doesn't mean to use. That's not him. The only thing about Daniel is that he's too desperate and too much elsewhere for any of it to ever really mean anything. Not that it _should_ mean anything to either of them, God forbid - but it's inevitably a bit painful, the way it explodes to Charles that it's not about him and it's not him who Daniel craves, when he shifts on the bed and his eyes land on Daniel, and Daniel stares beyond the balcony door or gets caught reading old messages and isn't anywhere near Charles even when Charles lifts his hand and makes his fingers pirouette slowly on Daniel's thigh.

Silver on gold, milk and honey. The mixture messes with Charles's head and his soft paleness next to the silk-like tan makes his mind drift to who he's there to replace (unsuccessfully, apparently).

He would like to ask. He imagines casually throwing it at Daniel, _do you miss Max?_ And he sees it already, Daniel looking at him for an odd moment - angrily or startledly, that delicate detail is still a bit open in Charles's un-penned script - and then going _not really, no_ with slumped shoulders and avoidant abyss eyes that scream volumes about how miserably he's failing in trying to make his being forget the feeling of Max's. So Charles opens his mouth for nothing else than Daniel's skin and bones, and it's all Daniel is capable of giving.

(Later on he laps Daniel on Circuit Gilles Villeneuve and feels weirdly hollow thinking it's the only time he's ever been truly able to catch and hold Daniel; that fleeting fraction with their front wings leveled before he pulls away and steers into the limitless distance ahead.)


End file.
